Caught in the Middle—
Sighted or Blind?

by Debbie Stein

Reprinted from the
Spring 2000 edition of The Braille Examinerthe newsletter of
the NFB of Illinois, under the title “Meet a Fellow Federationist: Carmen Dennis.”

When you’re a partial, you’re caught somewhere
in the middle,” say Carmen Dennis. “You can spend your whole life deciding whether
you’re sighted or blind.” Carmen has faced this dilemma over and over throughout
her life. Some said she didn’t have enough vision to study or to work; others
have ridiculed her for using a cane because she “sees too well.” Claiming her
identity as a blind person has been a major theme in her life.

Carmen
Sepeda grew up on the east side of Joliet, Illinois, sixth in a family of eight
children. Her parents were Mexican, and she learned Spanish as her first language.
From early childhood she had low vision due to a condition that was eventually
diagnosed as Rieger’s syndrome. When Carmen’s mother tried to enroll her in
the local kindergarten, the school refused to accept her. The teacher claimed
she didn’t see well enough to read or write. No one told Carmen’s parents about
Braille or special education for blind children. So Carmen stayed home while
her brothers and sisters went off to school. She listened as they did their
homework and learned as much as she could.

One
day when she was eight Carmen made up her mind to write just like everyone else.
She took a crayon and copied the printing from a colorful box, practicing one
word over and over on the bathroom wall. The word, it turned out, was KOTEX!
Carmen was in trouble, but for the first time her mother realized that she might
be able to learn reading and writing after all.

Shortly
after this incident Carmen’s parents divorced. Her mother could not support
all of the children on her own. Carmen and her younger siblings were sent to
the Guardian Angel Home, an orphanage in Joliet. The upheaval was traumatic,
but in the long run the orphanage proved a Godsend. The staff recognized Carmen’s
abilities and let her attend the small school on the orphanage grounds. Using
a magnifier she could read the large print in the first and second grade primers.
But as she advanced in school the print grew smaller. At last the teachers felt
she could go no farther without special help and sent her to the Illinois School
for the Blind (now the Illinois School for the Visually Impaired) in Jacksonville.

Carmen
entered the school for the blind in September, 1956, at the age of ten. She
was placed in a “sight-saving class,” because the staff said she had too much
vision to need Braille. However, she struggled to read her large-print books
and begged to be taught Braille as an alternative. At last her teacher agreed
to let her try Braille for three months. If she failed to master it in that
time, they said, she would have to go back to using print. Carmen took up the
challenge. She found Braille much less tiring, and was able to use it for most
of her subjects. However, the school still insisted that she use print in her
math classes. As time passed Carmen became fluent in both print and Braille.

At
school Carmen discovered a great divide between students with low vision and
those who were totally blind. Most of her friends were “partials.” Partials
had special privileges and responsibilities and looked down on the “totals.”
A few of the totally blind students were independent and adventurous, and Carmen
enjoyed getting to know them. But these were the exceptions. Most of the totals
lacked basic social skills. They needed help to cut up their meat and butter
their bread in the dining room. Partials were allowed to go shopping in town
on Saturdays, but they were assigned to take some of the totals along. No one
used a cane, so the partials had to lead the totals by the arm. Blindness meant
helplessness and dependence, and Carmen didn’t want anyone to think of her that
way. She didn’t want to be labeled as blind.

While
she was at the state school, Carmen began cutting hair and giving permanents
to the other girls. She decided she would like to become a beautician and even
took a cosmetology class at the nearby school for the deaf. Only one other student
from the school for the blind had ever taken this course. Though she was never
able to pursue this career goal, she still cuts and sets hair for family and
friends.

After
graduation Carmen talked to a counselor from the Department of Rehabilitation
Services (DORS) about her future. The counselor told her to go to Chicago for
further training at the Illinois Visually Handicapped Institute (IVHI), now
ICRE-Wood. Carmen had no idea how to use a cane and had never been to the big
city before. A counselor from IVHI promised to meet her at the bus station.
But when Carmen arrived, no one was there to meet her. She waited and waited,
growing more anxious by the minute. Finally she left the station and found a
Walgreen’s with a pay-phone. At last she spoke to the missing counselor. He
said he had been at the station, but he failed to recognize her because she
didn’t look blind. She was standing straight and alert, and he expected blind
people to have their heads down.

Carmen
spent eight months at IVHI, where she learned Dictaphone typing and a bit of
cane travel. She obtained a folding cane, which she unfolded whenever she had
to cross a busy street. As soon as she reached the far curb she would fold her
cane again and hide it in the sleeve of her coat. From IVHI Carmen went to the
Chicago Lighthouse for a course on medical transcription. She did well in the
class, and the Lighthouse placed her in a job at the Illinois State Psychiatric
Institute. After a trial period, however, she was terminated for problems with
spelling. Her supervisor told her to go back to the Lighthouse for more training.
“When I went to the Lighthouse again, the counselor got really angry,” Carmen
recalls. “I asked for more training, but she said I didn’t ask nicely. It seemed
like she wanted me to get down on my knees and beg.” Carmen left the Lighthouse
and never went back. She determined to find work on her own.

But
job-hunting proved harder than Carmen expected. She survived on Social Security
and shared a furnished room with a girlfriend. During this turbulent time she
became pregnant and gave birth to a daughter, Penny. Penny’s father, who was
blind, ran a cafeteria through the vending program sponsored by DORS. During
their six years together Carmen handled his bookkeeping and learned the business.

In
the summer of 1973 a blind friend, Pat Wolthoff, invited Carmen to the National
Federation of the Blind convention in New York City. Hotel rooms were only $8.50
a night, so she could afford to go. At convention, Carmen was astounded to see
so many blind people moving about independently. One day she stood by the glass
doors of the hotel and watched people streaming in and out, all of them using
long white canes. Many of these cane-users were partials. Carmen realized she
wanted to move with that degree of ease and confidence herself. She started
using a cane that day and has never hidden it again.

For
Carmen that convention was a transforming experience. She met dozens of blind
people who led interesting lives and were fun to be with. For the first time
in her life she felt it was respectable to be blind.

The
following year Carmen completed official training for the DORS vending program.
Because of her travel skills she was able to work as a substitute manager at
stands, snackbars, and cafeterias all over the city. She was told that she was
the best substitute in the program. She was assigned her own cafeteria, at Belltone
Electronics, in 1975. She is now assistant manager of a candy stand at the Richard
Daley Center in Chicago.

In
1980 Carmen married Charlie Dennis whom she met through the vending program.
Their daughter Kristy was born in 1981.

Carmen
Dennis is a stalwart member of the Chicago chapter of the NFBI. She is one of
those dedicated members who keeps things running smoothly by working behind
the scenes. At state conventions she labels rooms in Braille, and for twenty
years she Brailled the menus in the convention hotel restaurants. Since 1977
she has stored the affiliate’s supply of Braille literature in her home. She
handles the literature table at chapter meetings and at state conventions. It
means she does lots of organizing and a lot of heavy hauling.

“I
feel I’ve had to make a choice,” Carmen says. “I’ve had to choose whether to
be accepted as a blind person or to get people to accept me as a sighted person.
I made that choice when I started to use my cane. The first time one of my sighted
friends saw me she said, ‘What have you got that thing for? You don’t need that!’
And I told her, ‘Yes, I do need it, and I’m going to use it, because I’m blind!’”